


Crystallizing

by RaisingCaiin



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Annatar - Freeform, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Murder, Rescue, and generally not understanding mortals, being creepy, depends how you focus those goggles, secondary character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 18:15:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9001315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaisingCaiin/pseuds/RaisingCaiin
Summary: There are many things that Annatar does not fully understand about the Elves, and about one Elf in particular. Why do they celebrate a little snowfall? Why do they insist upon risky pastimes? Why do they smile so much?His frustration at this lack does not mean that he intends to let circumstances stop him from trying, though.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vultarre](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=vultarre).



> Written for [vultarre ](http://vultarre.tumblr.com/) via Tolkien Secret Santa 2016! Vultarre's prompt was "anything from the dark nerds being evil to humorous goofball stuff or even dark/macabre things," and, umm, I went mostly with the last one. . .

The sky is dark with cloud and the air is brisk enough to crystallize the slightest breath, but these things seem to be of far less interest than the bits of feathery white that dance upon the wind. From his vantage point upon a second-floor balcony of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain’s main workshop, Annatar is well situated to shake his head at the antics that the snow causes among the good folk of Ost-in-Edhil.

Snowfall is a rarity in the city. The bulk of the Hithlaegir range are far enough to the east that the mountains’ blustery weather rarely reaches the westernmost corners of Eregion, despite the chill winds that often blow across the river Gwathlo. So when it does snow, then, this is a distraction, a novelty – indeed, one of the few welcome excuses for work to stop as the people of the city let themselves be distracted by a bit of winter precipitation.

And today the Gwathlo is frozen over too, another rarity that Annatar has seen happen but once during the centuries he has spent in the city: usually the winters here are too temperate to completely silence the exuberant river. Now, though, the ice is thick enough that a few of the more enterprising souls have strapped bladed boots to their feet, and are testing their balance by sliding across the ice on them. The resulting movements are – well, surprisingly graceful. And Celebrimbor, Annatar is hardly surprised to notice, is among the most graceful of those daring few.

It comes as little surprise that Celebrimbor would be rushing out to try his luck with such a sport, Annatar thinks fondly. The silly creature is drawn to pursuits that most sane beings would suspect.

But even in this, and even from such a distance – not that the distance poses much impediment to a Maia’s eyes – Celebrimbor is a stunning creature. Annatar can still see the flush upon his cheeks, can hear his calls of joyful defiance to his fellow smiths, can watch in amusement as Celebrimbor plants his right blade upon the ice and sends himself into a skillful twirl. As much as the world must be whirling about in the Noldo’s vision, Celebrimbor appears barely dazed when his spin runs out of momentum. Flushed with triumph, he hollers a jubilant challenge to those behind him before skating further out, towards the center of the Gwathlo.

Nothing about this picture should enchant Annatar as it does: he has seen far more awe-inspiring things since his descent into Arda all those millennia ago. Annatar was present for the lighting of the stars, the eruption of the first volcano, the discovery of the Children themselves. . . and compared to these wonders, Celebrimbor’s widened grin should be as nothing. 

Yet, somehow, that smile _has_ become comparable to the many marvels of the world. Annatar is still not entirely sure what to make of this fascinating contradiction. The baring of teeth in an instinctive show of emotion – what is this to a Maia? And the fact that such a show might be directed at oneself, and by one individual in particular – no, what is _this_ to a Maia? Oddly enough, the closest to an answer he has found is in the instinctive reaction of his corporeal body: it wants to match Celebrimbor when he smiles, tooth for tooth, and one of these days, Annatar decides, he will let it.

He is ripped from this reflection by a sudden upsurge in the noise from the river. They’re – they’re shouting something about the ice?

With slight concern, Annatar focuses his sight upon the river itself, but before he can truly See anything, there is a thundering crack and the ice down the center of the Gwathlo splinters. Dark, gaping cracks yawn beneath the skaters’ feet, and several cry out in terror as they tumble into the freezing water. But Annatar has eyes only for Celebrimbor, who does not seem to hear his companions’ warnings and skates ahead blithely, still laughing, until another fissure fractures open behind and beneath him. In the time it take Annatar’s body to blink its eyes, Celebrimbor is gone.

Annatar does not _feel_ , in the same way that the Elves he lives among do. His mentality operates on a plane far, far above their own, and thus his sentiments are correspondingly greater: he suspects the Eldar would call it unfeeling, when actually it is a surfeit of feeling that is directed at a larger picture and cannot pause to cry over the individual. Annatar has not even scratched the surface of this topic with Celebrimbor, although he imagines that the knowledge would help the Noldo understand some of Annatar’s odder reactions from time to time.

But now, opening his eyes after a micro-fraction of time has passed, only to find that this is now a world that lacks Celebrimbor ( _undertheicepassedgonedeadandDROWNED_ ) – Annatar feels a frightening surge of _something._ Something disturbingly localized.

He has already lost so much to the Sea, during the War. He will not lose anything more to this misbegotten, runted tributary. He refuses.

With a thought, Annatar has left the balcony and is standing atop the cracking ice; with another, he is beneath it. He ignores the cries of the other Elves struggling nearby, and stretches out with his senses seeking only Celebrimbor.

He finds nothing.

A little more concerned now, Annatar pushes himself to the surface of the water, allowing his body a quick breath of oxygen while scanning the surface to see if Celebrimbor had somehow pulled himself out. He cannot see him. He ducks back beneath the water and sends out his senses again.

There! This time, somewhere beneath him – far deeper than he had thought to extend himself, with the last attempt – flickers a spirit that Annatar would know anywhere. With another thought, he wills himself deeper below the river, and this time, _this time_ , he is able to throw his arms about Celebrimbor’s body.

Even this deep, Annatar can feel the Noldo’s body reacting to the cold. Hardy as the Eldar are, even they cannot endure all things _(how well he knows this)_ , and a glacially-bitter river is not an insignificant trial. But the chilly currents wrench at Celebrimbor as if the Gwathlo is inhabited by another, less friendly Maia _(It is not. Annatar eliminated the resident spirit many centuries ago, upon deciding that he would be staying in Celebrimbor’s city. It would not do for the Mírdain to face such threats to their work.)_ , and to his growing disquiet, Annatar finds that his own body is now disobeying his will and refuses to simply drag them both to the surface.

Suddenly furious at this betrayal, Annatar resorts to a powerful kick that propels them up a few lengths, but he knows that such efforts will not be nearly enough. His legs have not half the strength that they did just moments ago, and already he can feel a peculiar bunching and gathering about Celebrimbor, that staticky impression that always heralds the spirit’s withdrawal from the body.

No. No, _**no**_ , Annatar will not have this. He will not relinquish yet another treasure that is his to those thieves that are the Valar!

He looses his arms from Celebrimbor’s shoulders, and with a wrench, clambers out of his own failing body. Letting his hard-wrought flesh with its golden hair and its delicate hands sink further into the Gwathlo, Annatar wraps his own spirit, fire-hot and star-bright, about Celebrimbor. Then, with another thought, they are rising – ascending – shooting up from the depths of the Gwathlo in a blazing streak of light.

To those who see them rise from the river, it must seem as though the Gwathlo erupts in flame. Not that Annatar particularly cares, at the moment. His sole care is to see Celebrimbor re-settled in his proper place – on this side of the Sea, with Annatar.

Annatar alights at the door of the very hall from which he had first watched his friend skating, Celebrimbor cradled securely within his grasp – or, actually, within _him_. His natural form offers no bipedal structure of reference, although from within the flames there are protrusions that may be teeth and others that may be wings: Celebrimbor is cocooned within the center of this fiery form. Several of the Mírdain rush toward them, their mouths flapping with alarm in a tongue that Annatar no longer has patience to decipher, and with a careless wave he blasts them all away from his precious burden.

He settles Celebrimbor upon the bed in his own chambers. Already the Noldo has warmed, but now the shivers of shock are setting in. Worse, the staticky sense about him has not discharged, and Annatar knows that the danger of Celebrimbor’s passing from him is not over. Unfortunately, he cannot tend to him adequately from the spirit alone. For this, he will need a physical form again.

Annatar can transmute the elements he needs to form a corporeal body from any matter, but to do so takes time, and time is a resource he can ill-afford to squander right now. Tearing himself from Celebrimbor’s side, he stalks out into the hall, sliding his spirit into one of the charred bodies he had left in his wake at their entrance. A few hasty re-arrangements give him serviceable hands, and Annatar propels the borrowed body back into Celebrimbor’s chambers, where he sets those dead hands to pulling the icy clothes from Celebrimbor’s frame. The fire behind them ignites in sympathy. These done, he attends to swaddling Celebrimbor as he has seen done for babes, and chafing the smith’s hands where they are left free from the cloth. It is slow, clumsy going – Gaerdor’s body is large, hammer-fisted and ungainly with only Annatar’s raging spirit to power it – but the static about Celebrimbor finally, finally dissipates beneath his ministrations.

Annatar has just begun re-arranging the material components of Gaerdor’s body into a facsimile of his own familiar form when at last Celebrimbor can be bothered to regain consciousness. The silly creature smiles up at him, sleepily, when he finally deigns to open his eyes, and Annatar is grateful that he thought to re-create his face first. He is now able to bare his own shining white teeth in reply.

If anything, Celebrimbor smiles a little wider, though no less blearily. “Annatar, you look as though you plan to eat me alive!” There is a short laugh before Celebrimbor shivers, unhappily, and attempts to burrow further into the blankets. “It is most disconcerting, my friend, though I am happy to see that you do know how to smile, after all.”

“I have always been aware of the instinctive reactions that drive you Children,” Annatar protests, but there is no heat to it: he simply revels in the fact that Celebrimbor is well enough to make another of his inane and utterly incorrect observations. He uses Gaerdor’s hands to tuck the blankets about the Noldo tighter, although luckily, Celebrimbor does not seem to register the loss of his other form’s fine long fingers.

“Mmm. Whatever you say,” Celebrimbor agrees, with a happy hum as he noses at the new layer of blankets. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed where I am, Annatar. I imagine you must have been the one to pull me from the Gwathlo when my own rashness sent me to the depths of the river. I thank you, my friend.”

“There is nothing to thank me for.” Behind Celebrimbor’s head, Gaerdor’s hands have been fully remade, so Annatar pulls one forward and brushes a slender first finger across Celebrimbor’s cheekbone. “I could not see the greatest of the Mírdain lost to such a trivial misfortune.”

“Hardly the greatest!” Celebrimbor protests. Then his eye seems to catch on the remains of Gaerdor’s ashy sleeves, and his nose wrinkles. “Though it certainly seems there is a story to how you managed it, and one that I find myself most curious to hear!”

“Easily corrected.” Reconstruction on Gaerdor’s legs halts for a second as Annatar directs his will toward the charred robes: a thought remakes them in all their alabaster glory for Celebrimbor to see. “Nothing of any note occurred save my scramble to protect you from the consequences of your own foolishness.”

He makes no mention of the Elves who must have been lost to the Gwathlo, or may otherwise perish of exposure before the night is up; he sees no reason to speak of the Mírdain who perished at his hand while trying to hinder him at the door to this very building. There will be time enough to smooth these individuals from Celebrimbor’s, and the Mírdain’s, minds while the smith recovers.

“And I am grateful for it,” Celebrimbor repeats, most gratifyingly.

“Good.” Annatar gives the blankets a final smoothing pat. He doubts this will be the last time Celebrimbor requires such salvation, but he also finds himself surprisingly willing to provide.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Gaerdor = copper/red brother (S. "gaer" + S. "tôr")


End file.
